


The Elder Scrolls: Revelation

by GGCrono, sharomanempire



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crime Drama, Gen, Mystery, Original Character(s), Slice of Life, alternate interpretations of magic, alternate interpretations of technology, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GGCrono/pseuds/GGCrono, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharomanempire/pseuds/sharomanempire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing stays the same forever. Time moves on, and the Wheel continues to turn. The sun rises on a new Tamriel. A Tamriel where the stories of the Nerevarine, the Oblivion Crisis, the Dragonborn, and so many more are tales of a world long past, renowned in legend and endlessly retold. A Tamriel where magicka is the domain of laborers and hobbyists, and the Daedra are considered myths, stories to frighten children. A Tamriel that has embraced technology and used it to make a better world.</p>
<p>This is the 577th year of the Fifth Era. And as the sun rises once again, the Elder Scrolls tell of a new beginning, of a world that is once again on the brink of a great change...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanmade interpretation of a modern era within the TES universe, lore is referenced but largely does not affect this time period. The authors involved are not lore scholars by any means; so don't expect an overly-strict lore-friendly story. It has magic-run smart phones for crissakes.  
> (This fanfiction is actually a collaboration! the co-author will be added as soon as he sets up his account)

The sun rose on a new day in Imperial City.

 

Since the city was always bustling with activity, the only major change that this brought was that more of them could see what they were doing. Nevertheless, it looked like it was going to be a fine day. The light glinted off the opulent Aldmeri-inspired architecture that made up the epicenter of the city. Reconstructions and refurbishments of buildings from eras past made up the most recognizable aspect of the sprawling capital. Glinting like a beacon in the dawn, White Gold tower still dominated the skyline, despite other buildings since making the climb into the stratosphere around it. it was the first part of the city to greet the rising sun, as it had been for centuries.

As the sun rose higher, it began to illuminate the further, more recently-constructed reaches of the city, with its towering apartment blocks, lavish eateries, and swarms of vehicles, buzzing about in a rush to ferry their passengers to their work days. One vehicle in particular was rather unusual, in that it held a very important person. Currently, this important person’s hands were bound in front of him. He was seated in the back seat of a police car, trying to stare a hole into the back of the driver’s head.

 “This one’s quiet,” said the officer, who was a fairly young Bosmer man.

 “Probably because he knows what’s good for him,” said his partner, a much older Imperial. “They’ve got big plans for this one. Why else would we be transporting him to TALEO HQ?”

 “Don’t ask me,” said the driver. “That shit’s above my paygrade. Pass me a bearclaw, would you?”

 The prisoner looked out the window. They were getting closer to the central district of the city, where all the big government agency headquarters were. He began to worry. The car came to a halt in front of a Briarbrew shop.

“This is where we’re supposed to meet the agent?” said the Bosmer.

“That’s the one,” said his partner. “Go wait outside for them.”

“Why do I have to do it?”

“Because I’m pulling rank on you. Get some coffee while you’re at it.”

The driver groaned. “I’ll remember this,” he said. He stepped out of the vehicle, and shortly after, opened up the back door.

“Come on,” he said to the prisoner, tugging on his arm. “We’re moving.”

The prisoner didn’t struggle. He wasn’t in the mood to add ‘resisting arrest’ to his list of charges.

As they waited, the prisoner scoped out his surroundings. There were people of every shape milling about, sipping various coffee-based beverages and nibbling on pastries. Near the door, a brown-scaled Argonian in cutoff jeans, a flannel shirt and thick-rimmed spectacles strummed an out-of-tune acoustic guitar. All in all, it was the picture of your average cafe... until you noticed the higher concentration of people in nice suits.

One such person, a middle-aged Orsimer woman, approached the policeman, dropping a bill into a nearby upturned hat along the way.

“Are you Special Agent Gra-Gatuk?” said the officer. She nodded, reaching into a pocket and flashing her TALEO badge.

“Right then,” said the officer, looking relieved. “I hereby officially remand this prisoner into your custody. He’s your problem now. Have a nice day.”

Special Agent Gra-Gatuk took the prisoner by his arm as the officer left, leading him some ways down the street. They walked perhaps a block, until they came to an unmarked black van. It was idling. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a black bandanna, and with little preamble, tied it over the prisoner’s eyes. Deprived of his primary sense, he could only listen as he was put in the backseat of the van and driven to an unknown location.

After an unknown amount of time passed, he was let out of the vehicle in what seemed to be a parking garage. From there he was led to an elevator, and the elevator, in turn, opened up into a place with lots of different people milling about and talking.

Finally, he was put somewhere quiet and given a seat. His blindfold was removed, and now he could see that he was in an interrogation room. His gaze was drawn to the large mirror directly across from him. A haggard-looking man stared back at him.

The prisoner wondered idly who was watching him from the other side of the glass. He wondered. He watched. And he waited.

The door clicked open, and new agent walked in, taking one of the two empty chairs on the other side of the table. He had the skin tone and features of a Redguard, but his eyes were the deep, icy blue commonly associated with Nordic heritage. Those eyes were fixed very firmly on the prisoner, staring right through him.

The agent didn't say anything. He just looked at the prisoner, occasionally sipping from a coffee mug with the TALEO emblem on it. The prisoner felt extremely nervous.

Another agent, a smaller female of elven descent took the empty chair. She had the look of a Bosmer, but the tufted ears and the slitted, feline eyes suggested one of the more humanoid types of khajiit. She had a binder with her and began leafing through it, tossing a page to her partner.

The male agent's eyes darted over the page in silence for perhaps another minute. Then he let out a long, low, whistle. "Mr. Claude P. Madlaine Jr.," he read. "Priors for breaking and entering, armed robbery, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, most recently, possession of skooma with intent to deal..."

He shook his head disappointedly, as if he were talking to a promising schoolchild who had been caught smoking in the restroom. "Your mother must be so proud," he said, passing the sheet back over to his partner.

The sheet was snapped back up by the mer and whisked back into its place in the binder. The agent’s green eyes pierced through Claude, sternly. “You know that you are not escaping these charges anytime soon, Madlaine,” she said. her voice had a dour, professional monotone to it. “However, today is your lucky day. You’re not the biggest fish in this pond. We’re looking for a bigger catch.”

The prisoner's eyes shifted to the left and right.

"Full immunity is absolutely out of the question," said the man, "before you get your hopes up. But I believe that a reduced sentence is on the table, and early parole is certainly a possibility if you behave yourself in the meantime."

Claude lowered his head. Then he mumbled something.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Protection," he murmured. "I want protection. If they find out I squealed..."

“Of course.” The mer agent began writing something down. Claude attempted to sneak a peek, but it seemed that it was in a foreign language. The rumble of the human’s clearing throat snapped his attention back to his hands.

She looked up. “We know that you get your product from  Two-Toed Laphonse,” she said.

“Two-Toed is pretty smart for a criminal scumbag,” said the male agent, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’d have to be, to oversee the Niben branch of the skooma pipeline. Smart enough not to do his own dirty work. But you’re smart too, aren’t you, Mr. Madlaine? Smarter than he gives you credit for.”

Claude said nothing. He was clearly unsure what the game was here.

“You know how much your employer values your life,” he continued. “Which is to say, not at all. So I bet you have a little insurance somewhere, just in case he tries something. Now, you give this insurance to us… then maybe things go a little easier for you. We’ll protect you until Two-Toed gets put away, and then you serve your time and go on your merry way. If I’m in a good mood, I’ll tell my buddies who work at Bravil Correctional to look out for you.”

“This is a very limited time offer,” said the woman, closing the folders. “You have until my partner finishes his coffee to make up your mind.”

“And believe you me, this is terrible coffee,” said her partner, peering into his mug. “I am not going to take the time to savor this.”

Claude could clearly tell where the wind was blowing. “Markus Strongarm,” he said.

“Two-Toed’s former chief enforcer, we know of him,” said the female agent. “He went missing about two months ago.”

“He was diddling Two-Toed’s boyfriend,” said Claude. “Two-Toed got rid of him personally. Lost his temper, caved his skull in with a wrench. Don’t know where he stashed the body, but Two-Toed got me to help clean-up. Told me to get rid of everything. I held onto some. Lockbox in my apartment, under the bed.”

A form was slipped toward Claude. “Fill this out,” said the female agent.

“There’s another thing,” said Claude, eagerly taking the agreement. “Two-Toed is going to be taking in a big shipment. At least a hundred liters of skooma. Gonna be delivered to the Honningbrew bottling plant.”

 The redguard agent’s smile widened. “That is certainly something we can use,” he said, pulling a pen from his pocket and sliding it across the table. “You just write down everything you can remember, Mr. Madlaine. If everything you give us pans out, you may just find yourself with a second chance.”

“And I’ll be safe, right?” said Claude, as he began to write hastily.

“Of course, Mr. Madlaine,” said the woman. “The United Empire keeps its promises.”

The two agents stood up and quit the room, and Claude let out a breath of relief.

 


	2. Ian and Rokasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter artwork: http://relmyna-verenim.tumblr.com/post/123301100695/

Two figures stepped out of the interrogation room, sternly and deliberately, and shut the door behind them. A collective sigh went out between them.

Then the taller of the two brightened up considerably, raising a hand in the universal gesture of ‘high five’. “Told you, ‘Kash,” he said, grinning toothily. “We peeled that guy like a grape. Two-Toed and his whole operation are gonna be wrapped up by the end of the week.”

The small and slender mer looked at her partner’s held up hand for a moment before giving it the lightest of halfhearted taps and moving on, a collection of notes tucked underneath her arm.

“I still think the blindfold was a little much,” she said. “You’ve been watching too many terrible cop shows.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of how perfectly it worked.”

She rolled her eyes. “He folded a little too easily, if you ask me. I’ll have to look into these names he gave us.”

“I have a good feeling about this one,” her partner replied, as they began to make their way back to the bullpen. “You see the way he was twitching? This guy’s not a hardliner, he’ll give us anything we want if it means he gets out with all of his bits intact. Lunch on me? Only the finest of terrible street meat for my beautiful partner.”

The eyeroll he got in return was more of a rise than he usually got out of her, which probably meant that it was a win for him.

TALEO was headquartered in a large building right in the central business district of Imperial City, on one of the higher floors. The director liked to say it was to show the citizenry that the gaze of the law reached far and wide; Ian always thought of it more as ‘We can see your house from here’. But those were the kinds of thoughts he reserved for the pub after hours. The two of them navigated the crowds of other agents milling about until they found their desks, across from each-other.

“I mean it, though,” said Ian, pulling out his phone. “Lunch is on me. What’re you in the mood for?”

 Rokasha had set to carefully organizing her work, barely looking up from her filing, brow knitted in concentration. “We can grab a sandwich from the Green Pact; I’m in the mood for a club, myself.” Dates were scribbled in the top margins of the papers. If she could record every breath she probably could, but her meticulousness was useful enough on the job. She was thorough enough for the both of them, Ian had joked before.

 

 The Green Pact was a tongue-in-cheek name for a deli run by one of the longer-standing Bosmer families in the city. It wasn’t all meat, of course, there hadn’t been an actual participant of the green pact it was named after for centuries. Still, they provided years of service to TALEO agents too lazy to do more than cross the street for their food. In return, the Green Pact was probably one of the safest mer-owned businesses on the block. The portly Bosmer greeted the two at the door, and they took their usual seat; in the corner, near the window. Rokasha holed up in the far end with her back against the corner, safe, secure, and inconspicuous.

One of the regular waitresses - a lanky, tawny-furred Khajit - recognized them immediately. The two of them were VIPs around here, mostly because they tipped like drunken sailors. **  
**

“Afternoon Mr. Eriksen, Miss Rokasha,” she said cheerily. “The usual?”

“Afternoon, Fatima,” said Ian. He had a knack for remembering the names of everyone who he exchanged more than two sentences with. “That would be lovely, thanks, and make mine an extra meat today. ‘Kash?”

Rokasha knew full well what she wanted, but she still did a cursory glance at the menu out of habit. “The Carnivore Special, please. Extra beef, medium rare. Hold the mayo, please.” She smiled curtly at the waitress as the menus were whisked away. The afternoon sun poured in through the window Ian sat closest to in streaks between the shadows of buildings, illuminating tables and patrons. They were mostly Khajiit and Bosmer, who appreciated the meat-heavy menu.

 Barely a minute had gone by before Rokasha took out her slightly outdated Seri and was already trying to get a signal for what meager aethernet she could glean from the deli wi-fi. Before it finished connecting, a hand snatched the device from her.

“Come on,” said Ian. “We’ve just had a win. You can turn your work-brain off for a few minutes. Can’t we have small-talk like the civilized people we pretend to be?”

For all her seriousness, the mer gave him a pout that would have fit better on a child’s face. “We won the battle, but we didn’t win the war. The rest of the Two-Toed’s gang could be halfway across the Alinor border by now, and you know how high-profile cases like this end up ‘somehow’ vanishing into thin air in the hands of the Altmer.”

Ian sighed a little. “The war on drugs isn’t going to spontaneously escalate just because we have a nice lunch without talking about it,” he said, sliding the phone back across the table. “Come on. You have any plans for the weekend?”

The phone was tucked away with some hesitance. Rokasha’s attention turned to the dust motes in the sunlight as she went through the mental checklist of her memorized schedule. “I need to get groceries tomorrow. Loredas night I’m staying in, Sundas I’m probably going to get dragged out on the town by Anita from the third floor with the rest of the girls, I guess to a waterfront place. At some point I need to call my mom. You?”

“As much as I’d like to say I’m doing something exciting, probably going to just clean up my apartment and balance my checkbook, boring stuff like that,” he said, a look of existential dread crossing his features. “But hopefully I’ll make some time to get up close and personal with my Adventures of the Dovahkiin box set and a six pack. Ought to be a good time. You should come by, we’ll have fun with it. Take a sip every time the effects look like shit.”

“That sounds like a one way ticket to alcohol poisoning.” A smile crept up on his partner’s features. Rokasha’s fangs made a brief appearance. “I suppose if it meant dodging being around drunken waterfront clubbers I could take you on your offer, but I can’t say I see the appeal in getting so drunk Dohvakiin looks good.”

“You are sorely missing out,” said Ian. He waved at Fatima again, as she handily deposited two large sandwiches on the table, as well as two bottles of Briar Cola, vanilla and cherry respectively.

“The drinks are on the house,” said Fatima, winking at Ian. “You two have a nice day now.”

The enormous pile of meat between two slices of bread seemed a little much for the slight young woman across from him, but at this point, Ian knew better. The only thing that seemed to slow her down was the fact that she couldn’t unhinge her jaw. Rokasha wiped red meat juice from the corners of her mouth. “I might visit family during the First Seed Fair next weekend. If I come back covered in cat hair, that’s why. I need to try and get my backlog done before then, on that note.” She made to go for her seri before stopping herself to wipe pinkish juice from her soiled fingers.

“We should do more things when we’re not on the job,” said Ian, between mouthfuls of bread and meat. “The job keeps me so busy that I don’t have time to make other friends.” He gave her a smirk as he tore back into his meal.

“I’m sure people are missing out on your charming personality.” Rokasha replied, dryly. “I don’t imagine you’re the type to attend Rawlith Kahj classes or catch up on paperwork in your spare time, I don’t think you’d have a terribly interesting time with me. Unless want to help me babysit my cousins on the seventh, which trust me, you don’t. They scratch.”

Ian shuddered. He had heard some horror stories before. He’d met terrorists that sent less of a chill down his spine.

His own (slightly fancier) Seri let out a musical chime. He quickly wiped his hands off and took a look at it. “Huh,” he said. “You remember that antiquities smuggling case that Roddy was assigned to? Seems he’s hit something of a brick wall. Says the case is ours if we want it.”

Rokasha’s brow rose curiously as she was in mid-bite; slit pupils dilating from interest as she struggled to chew quickly and swallow, making her sound slightly out of breath in her reply. “Well I guess we could, what kind of antiquities are we talking about?”

“Relics dating back to the Third Era,” said Ian, skimming over a report. “Nothing too exciting, just museum pieces that these rich bastards like owning just to say that they have. But you know what the money from this sort of thing gets funneled into.” He flipped a few more pages. “So the smugglers apparently were moving the stuff out from an unlicensed excavation around Ald Redanyia.” A few more flips. “Should be nice and boring. Good change of pace from the exciting world of the skooma pipeline. What’d you say, want to burn the midnight oil and work this out a bit?”

“Sounds interesting, I could work it in. I wonder what they found from out of the Third Era that was even worth smuggling.” Rokasha shrugged dismissively, cramming the last bite into her dainty mouth as best she could. A slow and polite eater, she was not.

“You know how it is,” said Ian, who still had a third of his sandwich left. He certainly wouldn’t want to be stranded anywhere with her; he wouldn’t come home with all his extremities intact. “These old fogeys love anything that’s older than they are.”

“Can’t be any worse than skooma runners. Let Roddy know we’ll look into it, I guess.” The small mer flagged down the waitress and nodded when asked how her meal was before she handed off her plate. Her phone replaced it on the table in almost an instant. Of course.

“Tell me the truth,” said Ian, leaning back a bit. “You’re really just playing Mudcrab Match on that thing all day when you’re ostensibly working.”

 Rokasha flashed him the small screen of the phone, on a mobile search engine page, looking up ‘ald redania’ and being corrected in condescendingly bolded letters below. “I like to be able to research every angle of my cases. Even the ones involving moldering old ruins from divines-know-when.”

“You always were the smart one,” said Ian, finally polishing off his own meal and washing it down with the sweet vanilla cola. “Of course, surely you must realize that this makes me, by default, the pretty one.”

Rokasha muffled a small chuckle behind a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sure you do the role more justice than I do.” Her attention went back to her phone and the slowly-loading web articles on Vvardenfell excavation sites she drummed up.

“You know you can just expense an upgrade, right?” said Ian, as he got up to pay. “The agency owes you that much. Anyway, back to the grind, I suppose. You know what they say the reward for work well done is.”

“I’m working on that. If I upgrade I’m going to spend a week acting like a doddering old grandma trying to use the aethernet before I can get used to that and I don’t want that slowing me down on the job.” Rokasha tucked her seri away in an almost offended huff, taking a final swig from her cola as they both got up. “Back to the grind, it is.”

Outside of the sandwich shop, the city was bustling. It was never not bustling; it bustled even at the dead of night. But it was a nice day. The sky’s were clear. There was a pleasant breeze. The air smelled slightly less smoggy than usual. So the bustle was kicked into high gear.

Ian took a deep breath and sighed wistfully. “Days like this remind me of why we do this, y’know?” he said.

Rokasha bristled at the ever-present sound of traffic, fuzz-tipped ears flicking slightly out of reflex. “Is it to protect the freedom of Cyrodiil and the united provinces, or to have an excuse to work on the top floor away from all this?” She flinched at a nearby car honking irritably, as if to prove her point.

“Who says it can’t be both?” said Ian, smiling rakishly as only he could as he started to walk.. “Race you to the elevator.”

There was the token wait to cross the street through all the traffic, with Rokasha hurrying to get as far away from that mess as possible. Ian held the door open for her, barely holding his arm up for his tiny partner to walk under it. The breeze and the sunshine and the noise of the waning days of Sun’s Dawn were shut out by the airtight glass panes, and the dour familiarity of the foyer was preferred by the mer, who gave her partner an acknowledging nod.

 “I’ll look into what Roddy has to say about that artifacts case. For now, let’s check up on those southbound runners.”

“The excitement never ceases.”

 


	3. Zoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter artwork: http://relmyna-verenim.tumblr.com/post/123764951170/

A figure looked into a slightly dusty mirror. Said figure made a mental note to pick up some glass cleaner on the way home as she wiped it off.

The face that looked back at her was… plain. Exceptionally so. Aggressively so. Plain brown hair in a short, professional bob cut, plain brown eyes. Her face bore the slightly angular curvature that was typical of her blood, but aside from that, it didn’t have much to recommend itself. The trace amounts of makeup she occasionally felt she had to put onto it never helped. She sighed.

“Stop fretting, Zoe,” she said to her reflection. “They didn’t hire you for your looks. You’re just having first-day jitters.”

Her reflection gave her a look that questioned why she was talking to it.

A gentle rap of knuckles against the door made her flinch. It opened with a creak, a scaled snout poking in between the gap. A throaty, familiar voice inquired, “Are you ready? We should try and beat the traffic while we still can.”

Zoe nearly banged her head on the mirror. “I’m ready, I’m ready,” she said, brushing off the casual clothing she had been told to wear. Long-sleeved shirt, light slacks. Easy enough. “Tell me honestly, do I look okay? Nothing in my teeth? No hideous growths?”

The door opened the rest of the way, a reddish, mottled Argonian looking Zoe up and down before her red eyes slitted with approval. Zoe had gotten used to reading the slightly different expressions her reptilian partner had. Clawed hands took soft, delicate fleshy ones with practiced gentleness, pulling the Breton closer to her. “You’re fine, you’re fine. You’re not exactly turning in a portfolio or anything. You know where this place is, right? I’ve been around the industrial block maybe twice in my whole life.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she said, giving Eresia a kiss on the nose. “It’s just… look at me! Gainfully employed! I will acquire money that can be exchanged for goods and services! All that good stuff!”

She nervously laughed to herself, her face bright red.

“You’re moving on up in life.” Eresia chuckled, a hand circling around Zoe’s waist as they made their way across the apartment. It was a modest place, maybe meant more for one person instead of two, but neither of them figured they took up much space. Eresia paused for a moment to reach over the back of the loveseat to save and close out of an open draft on her notebook and then they were off, down the harrowing amount of stairs that were a fact of life in this apartment block. It wasn’t the cleanest or newest building, but the neighborhood was nice enough. The only real disadvantage was that Zoe’s new place of employ was halfway across the island.

 Eresia looked back at her girlfriend as they climbed down staircase number five. “You’re not going to come back smelling like burnt meat every night, are you?”

“No promises,” said Zoe, relaxing a bit. “I might just see if I can smuggle some steaks home in my pants.”

The two of them let out a laugh, as they finally stepped out into the predawn light. Zoe had insisted that Eresia sleep in at this ungodly hour, but there was no way that she was going to miss Zoe’s first day like this.

There was a subway station a few blocks from the complex, and it was already starting to gather crowds; a lot of commuters lived in this area. And now, one more did.

“Well… this is me,” she said.  “You can let go of my hand now. Or maybe don’t. We can just run off together and never come back instead.”

“Call me when you go on break so I don’t worry about you falling in a meat grinder or… whatever.” The Argonian chuckled half-heartedly to herself and gave her human sweetheart a final hug. “You do realize I'm going to take every chance to make meat jokes, puns, and various references now, don’t you? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“Oh, Divines,” said Zoe, her face shifting into a visage of mock horror. “What have I done? Guess I’d better quit now.”

They shared another laugh. Zoe embraced her beloved and affectionately rubbed their noses together.

“Thanks, I feel a lot better now,” she said. “Don’t burn down the apartment while I’m gone, my little love lizard.”

“Don’t get turned into ground chuck, my smoothskinned sweetie.”

Mutual pats on the backside were exchanged as they parted, and Zoe made her way down just as the subway was pulling up. A quick swipe of her Stridercard opened up the turnstile, and the next thing she knew, she was half-asleep on a rapidly-moving seat.

The Strider zipped underneath the city in a fraction of the time it would have taken to go by car. Zoe idly watched the ticker towards the front of the cab flash with the names of destinations. There were stops at two points in Talos Plaza, and another at Emperor Arbor before they crossed the bridge that headed to the waterfront. Luckily, the Arano building wasn’t far away from her stop. The stylized guar logo was the only identifier she had for the building amongst all the rest in the tight-knit industrial complex, making her way towards the back entrance with no small amount of nervousness.

A stout, densely-bearded Nord waved at her with a “Hey, you!” and she had a mental picture of being arrested for trespassing before she could explain that she was supposed to be here. He approached her and cleared his throat.

“You Ashcroft?” he asked. She nodded quickly, and his stern demeanor immediately brightened up.

“Just on time,” he said. “I like that. I’m Harold Olafsen and I’ll be your supervisor. Welcome to the Arano family!” He gave her a pat on the back with a hand the size of a shovel and she let out a sputtering cough. He didn’t seem to notice.

 **  
**“Let me show you around a bit,” he said, as he let her in. The smell of the place hit her in an almost tangible wave, a smell of blood, raw meat and various animal-related scents. She wondered if complaining about it would get her fired, but Mr. Olafsen quickly handed her a set of nose plugs. **  
**

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. “You’ll get used to it eventually. I can’t smell a thing anymore. You’re not squeamish at all, are you?”

“N-no sir,” she said, as she stuffed a foam plug into either nostril.

“Good, good,” he said. “Here at Arano Inc, we pride ourselves on the humane treatment of our stock. But a walk through the slaughterhouse can be a bit intense for first-timers.”

The sparse but clean foyer that the two had walked through betrayed the factory hall proper. The building was large, and the factory floor yawned out before them, several rows of conveyor belts laden with meat in the process of cutting and packaging were being handled by workers who had dressed warmly for the brisk, refrigerated air. They cut through the room, dodging the occasional worker in their path or a cart full of raw meat, and Zoe noticed that they were basically following a line hooked up to the ceiling, where stripped carcasses were hung to head to waste disposal. It was a macabre path to a macabre job.

 “You’ll be working the incinerator today,” Harold held open one of the swinging doors at the end of the hall for the new employee. “It’s simple enough, you power the conductor with a flare until the thermometer gives the signal, and make sure the temperature doesn’t drop while there’s waste in there. Occasionally some of the chunks don’t burn all the way, so you’ll have to burn them out manually. You’re good with directing flame, right? Either way, you’ll be given a flame retardant suit. Every fifteen minutes you get a break for a breather, and magicka drafts are on the house. Don’t wear yourself out on the first day.”

“Yes, sir!” she said, brightly.

“It’s kind of a shit job,” he said. “Sometimes literally. But it’s one that’s gotta get done, so do it with some pride. Do a good job and there’s definitely room for promotion. What’s your magickal background like?”

“My background?” said Zoe.  “Well, I’ve had a knack for magicka since I was little, sir. After school, I got my industrial magecraft certification from Julianos Academy in Daggerfall.”

Mr. Olafsen let out a bark of later. “A fine trade school. Many of my best workers came to me from Julianos. You ever extract vitae before?”

“Vitae?” she said. “Um, no sir, can’t say that I have.”

“We offer a number of training courses if you want to learn,” said Mr. Olafsen, pulling a pamphlet out of his belt and handing it to her. “It’s work that’s always in-demand for those with the skills. This factory alone employs over a hundred extractors, and we’re always looking for more.”

“Over a hundred?” said Zoe, as she thumbed through the pamphlet.  “How many soulgems do you guys make?”

"We prefer not to use such an antiquated term around here,” said Mr. Olafsen, a mite reproachfully. “But to answer your question, Arano produces almost twenty percent of the V-gems used in Imperial City.”

Indeed, the pamphlet spelled that fact out pretty well.

“Take that home with you,” he said, his bright demeanor returning. “Locker room’s right over there, there’s some coveralls you can change into as well as respirators if you need ‘em. any questions?”

Zoe looked at the large, steel contraption, the area around the conductor blackened with ash, as well as several other places in the room. Her nose was thoroughly plugged but she could still taste the burnt odor and residual smoke that permeated the entire room.

 “Yeah, um, how many accidents do you have on this job; I don’t think I see any ‘days since last accident’ signs around here….” She trailed off. Harold gave her a dismissive smile that seemed rather grim and forced.

 “I can assure you that Arano Inc. has a long history of impeccable magical safety. There are fire extinguishers on hand,” he pointed to the red canister close to the conductor, “and a safety alarm in case things get really bad. There’s other waste management mages working other incinerators and they can assist you if you need it, but one mage per incinerator is the optimal arrangement here. You did say you were proficient in element control, yeah? It says right on your résumé. We prefer our magically inclined workers to be confident in their control over their own abilities.”

“Oh yes, for sure,” she said. She may have embellished on her resume a bit - who didn’t? - but that was one thing she was confident in. She’d just always seemed to have a knack for it.

“Good, good,” said Mr. Olafsen, taking out a clipboard. “You see the chutes up there? Organic waste comes out of those. Don’t stand under them.”

Zoe gave him a strange look and he rolled his eyes.

“I know, I know,” he said. “I have to tell you this stuff. Legal reasons. Anyway, waste comes out from the chutes. You burn the waste, you sweep what’s left into your bin, and once the bin’s full, step back and pull that lever there and the whole mess goes into the incinerator. Anything else you need help with, ask one of the other on-duty specialists. That should be all. You get an hour for lunch at half-past two. Right, that’ll be all, good luck then.”

Zoe looked over the workspace. It was dim and dingy and every surface she could spot was covered with stains of indeterminate but certainly disgusting origin. But in her eyes, she only saw opportunity.

A quick jaunt to the locker room later, she was fully dressed for the job in red coveralls, a mask and safety goggles, and made her way down to the floor, where two other similarly-garbed workers were doing their thing in front of their respective incinerators.

Two mer, one a tall, dusky-skinned Altmer, the other a smaller and stockier Bosmer woman traded smalltalk as the Altmer emptied a mess of waste into an incinerator. The Bosmer gave Zoe an acknowledging smile.

 “Haven’t seen you ‘round here, before… Oooh, you’re on number three, right? That’n’s been vacant for ages ever since –“ She was silenced by a quiet shush from her taller companion, the ridge of his brow knitting with concern as he looked the new employee up and down.

 “-It’s been vacant for a while, yeah. T’was an accident, but you don’t need to worry about that on your first day.” The Altmer finished, holding out a gloved hand for Zoe to shake. “I’m Doriel, I have incinerator two. Gladys here has number five at the end.”

 “Charmed.” Gladys’ face was plump and rosy, possibly from the cold. As a Bosmer of the feminine persuasion she was a little taller than Zoe, but the ochre-colored mer beside her still stood head and shoulders above her. Far from the Alinor stereotype of an androgynous and pampered Altmer, this mer was unshaven and unwashed; his coveralls were thoroughly soiled with Divines-knew-what. Zoe vaguely recognized the sports team logo on his cap.

“Nice to meet you,”  she said. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of-”

Just then, an alarm sounded, and the two of them took a step back. Zoe was quick enough on the uptake to do likewise, just as the chutes above them opened up and disgorged… so many things, in a variety of shades of red, pink and brown. Zoe could identify some chunks of bone, and some things that looked vaguely like spoiled meat, but most of it didn’t merit closer examination. She internally thanked the Divines for her nose plugs.

“Guess it’s game time,” said Gladys. She pulled a remote out of her pocket and hit a button, and a radio turned on somewhere, filling the chamber with twangy guitar music.

“Say whatever you like about this place,” Gladys added, as she put her goggles back down. “It’s got great acoustics.”

“Enough chit-chat for now,” said Doriel, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Time to turn up the heat.”

Zoe nodded, closing her eyes and cracking her knuckles. Her spine tingled as she felt magicka flow through her. This was it, she thought, as she approached the hideous pile. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was work. She thrust her arms out and willed magefire forth, and as the mess began to burn, she felt warm inside as well as out.

Things were finally starting to look up.

 


	4. Mehra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter artwork: http://relmyna-verenim.tumblr.com/post/124472744955/

Aging manor houses that had the misfortune to lie on the outskirts of the Anvil University campus tended to find themselves repurposed by the college-aged youth, their copious space allowing for a handful of students to take a floor each. A few students would split the rent between them, agree on use of amenities, and take turns with the chores, or, lack thereof. The creaking, half-repainted, red five bedroom house was no different. It had been decorated with patches of fanciful designs and a gaudy sign naming it Whitemoon Hall, but a crude painted scrawl in between the letters christened it Whitemoonie Hall, giving anyone who entered a taste of the sort of residence it was.

In the attic, away from distracting nuisances like loud music, sugar smoke, and sunlight, a Dunmer crouched glumly over her art horse, a smudged charcoal piece in front of her. Mehra Zainabi studied the reference photo pinned to the corner carefully, taking note of the proud cheekbones and arched brow of the Dunmer man in his traditional Redoran garb. This was the third time she had drawn him, and with each time came a different level of dissatisfaction with the result. Brushing back her untamed mane of hair with both hands, the artist allowed herself to stretch, back aching from the lack of support.

There was a banging on the door to her room, breaking her concentration on the painting at the moment. She turned around to see who it was, and a nightmare vision in a welding mask with a death’s-head motif painted onto it loomed before her. Clutched in each leather-gloved hand was a steaming Briarbrew cup, one of which was held out for her.

“Pull an all-nighter too, huh?” Mehra rose up from the bench, carefully stepping over it lest her skirt get caught on a corner. She gave the charcoal one final disdainful look before downing her drink. “What’s the situation look like downstairs? I thought I smelt pizza at some point but I think the turpentine in here is just making me hallucinate.”

“I suppose it can only be called pizza, since it’s made of toppings on bread,” said the voice behind the mask. “I wouldn’t eat it if you value your bowels.” The mask was peeled off to reveal the smiling face of a good-natured Orsimer, with a copious number of piercings and more eyeliner than was probably recommended. He ran a hand through his brightly-dyed hair, brushing some soot out of it.

His name was Shakh, though if you called him that he probably wouldn’t look up. Mostly he went by ‘Klang’, which he insisted to people was a fine name in the proudest traditions of his culture. People who weren’t Mehra, anyway.

“Call me a moron if you want,” he said, as he collapsed onto a conveniently-placed beanbag. “But in my world, food and art shouldn’t mix. Art should be reserved for the studio and the bedroom.”

“Considering nobody in the hall is a chef, I can agree with that.” Mehra held her cup out as she stretched out her shoulders, still feeling stiff and tired as if she hadn’t moved for hours. “If it’s not too late after class we could try going for some actual, non-‘artisan’ pizza. I should probably… get out of the house at some point, actually.” She moved over to the copious amount of patterned curtains that blotted out the sun and left only a faint reddish glow in the shape of a circular window. The neighborhood was slowly growing brighter as the sun rose over the bustling Gold Coast. Anvil was a lovely city, even if the neighborhood was particularly unkempt.

“Yeah, it has been awhile,” said Klang, sipping his coffee. “You need to go out and work on your tan a bit.”

This earned him a cleaning rag thrown at his head. He laughed.

“Want to come see what I was working on all night?” he asked. “It’s my latest masterpiece. I call it ‘Guy Made Of Lawnmower Parts’. The whole floor’s taking bets on what Professor Uzgakh’s gonna read my intention as. Easy money’s on ‘the struggle of the working class’, but ‘repressed sexuality’ is getting good odds too.”

The Dunmer grinned into her brew. “I can’t for the life of me understand modern art, how do you manage? I’d get tired of people imposing esoteric meaning to everything.”

Klang stood up again and looked over her latest piece. “This one looks hella nice, sister,” he said, hand on chin. “You do realism better than everyone on the floor and two-thirds of the yahoos in your classes. I don’t know why you never seem happy with ‘em.”

“That’s the thing,” Mehra sighed into her cup, making the surface of its contents ripple gently. “They’re realistic, but what else does it have going for it? It looks more like a dry, mass-reproduced lithograph for an encyclopedia. I want to make my people’s history look as vibrant and awe-inspiring as it feels to me.” She looked over other pieces leaning against the walls, skillful pastels and charcoals of Ashlanders, Great House retainers, and priests of old. Sharp, angular faces dotted with Dunmeri scarification looked down on her in an almost accusing manner.

 “I need this portfolio to pop, but I feel like none of these mer really look like… what they’re supposed to look like. Does that make sense?”

“Maybe a bit,” said Klang with a shrug. “But then again, I make things out of scrap metal and minor in modern dance, so what do I know?” He pulled her into one of his trademark bone-crushing hugs. “Whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure you’ll find it,” he said. “You’re gonna be somethin’ special someday, I just know it.”

“Just make out already!” came a random voice from outside the open door.

“Eat a dick, Vankar!” Klang called back without looking. “And clean your thrice-cursed space up, the whole room smells like ass and drain cleaner!”

The willowy young woman squirmed in her friend’s grasp with a laugh that sounded heartier than her dour self should be able to muster.

 “Come on, I need to go to class and look up M’Jonna for a quarter. I’m not smoking out of Karinna’s stash again, I swear her sugar’s fucking yellow. Maybe if I can get blasted off my gourd I can find some inspiration on Jone and Jode. That has to be after my Eastern History practice test, though.”

“Sounds good, pick me up some while you’re at it,” he said, pulling a bill out of his pocket and tossing it onto her workbench. “I’m gonna put my head down for awhile. See you around noon-thirty?”

“That’s not a real thing,” she said, as the two exchanged a fist-bump. She gave her latest work one last glance as she made her way downstairs.

The Hall was… as it usually was. An Argonian student whose art-name was a streak of hisses that Mehra couldn’t pronounce was passed out on the communal sofa, while two other students whose faces she couldn’t see were furiously making out on the floor. She carefully stepped over them as she grabbed an energy bar out of a mini-fridge, gnawing on it as she made her way out the door.

 

The trek to the campus was uphill, but it was relatively short. The art building was closest to the block, at the very edge of the rest of the campus. A quarantine, truly. The first class of the day was Elven Art, Mehra’s forte for sure, considered a shoo-in at first only to have her fall flat on her ass when the class focused on ancient Alinor and Summerset art history. Morrowind art was rarely touched on, and with the Altmer teacher and the large number of Altmer and Bosmer students, it was easy to tell why. Mehra was one of maybe three other Dunmer in the classroom, and the others were less than enthusiastic about Morrowind. Their loss, really.

Eastern History was a little better, being mostly Morrowind centric but they focused on the Great Houses and the Tribunal more, with the Ashlanders portrayed in a light that made Mehra physically ill. When the professor read aloud Mehra’s name, he gave her a look, and that look continued to be shared throughout the classroom. Mehra was that Dunmer, the one who clung to the old Ashlander culture, the one who made it an aesthetic and wore traditionally-inspired garb to classes, and ritual braids in her hair. She was an Ashlander, several generations removed, and she was going to hold onto that with a death grip in the face of the other, thoroughly western mer around her. At least in the general Elven History class, ignorant mer just figured every Dunmer was ‘an Ashlander’. It didn’t make her time spent in the classes any more pleasant, though.

After that was ceramics, the only class that she and Klang had together; they - as well as every other student in the class, she would wager - were taking it for the same reason; it was an easy credit. The teacher, to her credit, seemed to realize this too, and very politely did not expect the students to share her passion for pottery. Early on in the semester, she surprised herself by beginning to enjoy it. It was the artistic equivalent of cardio, simple and repetitive. After digging deep into art history, it was refreshing to just get her hands in some clay.

“How was your morning?” asked Klang, who was, as usual, making something phallic.

Mehra sat down in front of a pottery wheel next to her friend. Everyone in the class knew by now to always free up a seat next to Klang, or else there’d be trouble. Of course, that threat was concocted entirely by everyone else rather than Klang himself. Neither of them really minded that.

“Well I had to spend an hour and a half listening to a closeted Thalmor sympathizer try to tell the class that Pelletine elected to be a part of Alinor, never mind that entire shitstorm in 298 or anything. Disgusting.” The Dunmer plopped a damp lump of clay down in front of her and dug her fingers into it as she pedaled, enjoying a moment of satisfying destruction. Klang on the other hand, was continuing to push the boundaries of public decency with his work, as usual. It was a personal record he tried to set for himself; just how much phallic anatomy can he incorporate into a piece before a teacher began to complain? He tried to get Mehra to join in, but she was more concerned with trying to reproduce old Morrowind pottery styles.

“The struggle is real, sister,” said Klang, as he lovingly shaped the contours of a hollowed clay scrotum.  “One of these days you’ll show ‘em. You’ll write an essay so scathing that these bitches will literally combust from the scorn of it.”

“If I didn’t have so much credit riding on that class, I’d write something so anti-Thalmor that Titus Mede II will rise from the grave to high five me.” Mehra grumbled, bitterly. “I’m so tired of being the odd mer out; I should have uprooted to Cheydinhal.”

Taking a deep breath, Mehra gathered up the now-mangled mess of clay and began to shape it into something more acceptable. From the other side of the room, the professor raised his voice to chastise Klang with an accusing “Gro’Kalangh,” prompting the orc to sigh and pushed down on his latest masterpiece until it became a blunted, unassuming lump.

“For what it’s worth,” said Klang, as he began to reshape the mass into something more subtle,  “I’m glad you’re here. You’re the only other student in the department interesting enough to be worth liking. You think about what you art, I mean, really think.” With a smirk, he picked up a scalpel and began to carve an erotic scene into the side of his new pot. “And one of these days, you’re going to make something so nuts. And if not, then at least you can use your graduation speech to tell the lot of them to dive ass-first into Oblivion.”

“I’m probably going to end up doing the latter at this rate.” Mehra tried to recreate the shape in her head, one of the Urshilaku bug-bowls, slowly turning her wheel to ensure the shape stayed asymmetrical. It wasn’t quite a shalk shell, but it could pass. None of the other students probably knew what a shalk was, for that matter.

“If anything, I’m hoping my portfolio piece will impress. Five of the greatest Redoran heroes Morrowind has ever known, recreated from their depictions in art and literature. The pressure to make the likenesses as close as I can will be well worth the look on professor Umbrianos’ face. I just hope I can get them right.”

“Guess I’ve got that to look forward to,” said Klang. “Wanna meet up for dinner? I’ve got a coupon for the Elsweyri place in the commisary and it expires tomorrow. You can watch me try and eat an entire curry platter myself again.”

“High quality entertainment.” Mehra replied, dryly. “I’m probably not going to be out too late tonight, I want to redo the Bolvyn Venim piece, smoke a bowl and pray to whatever god that listens to make me not hate the piece three hours later.”

“Fine, but dinner first,” said Klang, prodding her cheek with a muddy finger. “I promised your mom I wouldn’t let you skip any more meals. Don’t give me that look, she’s scarier than you are.”

Mehra snorted at that, and went back to her work. The rest of the class coasted by easily, as it usually did, and the figure studies class was yet another boring, plain-looking man whose underwhelming body Mehra made short work of. Her strong tendency towards realism was hard to shake, she found, even when the subject bored her to death. Was that her problem with her pieces? Were they boring? The thought bothered her more than it should. She made an attempt to exaggerate the doughy frame of the model, but it felt like her style was imprisoning her.

 

Dinner had her paying extra attention to the people around her, to the mer and men alike and the features that made them unique. Everything about them told a story, why didn’t her portraits do the same? Her glum, bewildered observation continued despite how often Klang would try to distract her. She only perked up back in the small circle of beanbag chairs in the attic, with Klang carefully portioning a few crumbling chunks of moon sugar and emptying a small amount into the end of a pipe.

“You look grim,” Klang’s swept back brow knitted with concern, passing the pipe to his friend. “What’s on your mind?”

Mehra seemed to think about it for a moment, striking the lighter in the pipe and breathing deep. “I think I should take my work in a new direction.”

That got a reaction out of him; he nearly fell over, though that may have been due to the sugar. “Who are you and what have you done with Mehra?” he said. “Or alternately, what did you put in this sugar?”

“What? You say it like I’ve never tried anything new before.” Mehra cut herself off, realizing that she really hadn’t tried anything new; from her style to her subjects, everything exactly as stagnant and boring as the other, non-mer things she would scoff at every day.

It was a harrowing thought, to say the least. Perhaps it would have had a greater impact if the weightless buzz of the sugar wasn’t starting to take effect, taking the edge off of her worries, making her feel like she was melting very slowly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that wasn’t realistic,” She mused, staring at the exposed beams of the ceiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that wasn’t portraits of dead mer or essays on dead mer. I’ve been focusing on dead people my entire life, just like my ancestors. Huh.” Her eyes told of muted worry, but a smile crept up on her features, as the sugar often caused.

Klang suddenly began to giggle. “Whatever you paid for this stuff, it wasn’t enough,” he said. “You know what? Go for it. Experiment. Art is about expression, so express your bad self! Draw some landscapes! Watercolor some fruit! Strip naked, roll yourself in paint and hump a canvas!”

The Dunmer doubled over in her seat as she chortled loudly, trying her not to spill her pipe. “Maybe not that much experimentation!” She settled down, thinking as hard as her buzz could allow. “Maybe some experimentation. Maybe I should try stylizing those portraits I’m doing. Exaggerate just a little. I want to show… the real Redoran. Not the noble old mer in bonemold in the history books. These mer were vicious, they were warmongers, they were terrible people, and we’re supposed to draw them in the best light possible? Fuck that.”

“Yeah!” said Klang, standing up and punching the sky. “Art should be raw, intense! Art should make the so-called normals uncomfortable! Make them angry! Art should… should…”

His eyes unfocused as he brought his hand down, staring at it. “Art should… maybe relax a little… have a beer… and feel out all the… things…”  He collapsed back onto the beanbag, giggling even more.

“Yeah, sister,” he said. “You should do that thing you just said. If you just wanna show people what a thing looks like on the outside, that’s what photography’s for. Art is for… art is for showing people something’s soul. What they really are.”

Mehra giggled into her hand, relaxing even further into her seat. “That’s it, I need to show everything what these mer are, or… something.” She got up out of the beanbag chair uneasily, her extremities still feeling rather numb, staggering over to her art horse. The charcoal from earlier was discarded unceremoniously, a new canvas put in its place.

The Dunmer artist fought to concentrate through her high, grabbing the nearest oils at her disposal. “I need to show the world my people,” She hissed, mostly to herself, a laden brush making the first bold, violet stroke on the bare white surface.


	5. Ian and Rokasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter art: http://relmyna-verenim.tumblr.com/post/150794767545/

The lush fields of Skyrim stretched out for miles, dotted with flowers and wildlife and other great sights. It would have been idyllic if not for the fact that a lot of it was presently on fire.

A huge, swooping shadow swept across the land, trailing destruction in its wake. It flew past a large boulder, behind which a large Nord in an iron helmet was ducking. Beside him was a much smaller woman with an exasperated look on her face.

“Well, my noble Housecarl,” said the Nord. “I think we can safely say that punching the dragon did not work.

“I could have told you that, O mighty Dragonborn,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “And in fact, I did. Loudly and repeatedly.”

“Fortunately, I have a backup plan!” he said. Lydia let out a groan.

“He’s going to say ‘punch it even harder’,” she murmured.

“Punch it even HARDER!” cried the Dragonborn, leaping out on top of the rock. “HEY, YOU GREAT SCALY BASTARD! YOU COULDN’T TOAST A SWEETROLL!”

And with that, something swooped out from behind a mountain, a nightmare vision rendered in only the best of terrible illusion effects.

Ian let out a snort of laughter as he turned the volume up. “Never gets old,” he said to himself, as he cracked open another beer.

Rokasha and himself had been grinding away on the antiquities smuggling case for the better part of a month. People, he realized very early in his career, had a terribly skewed idea of what went into police work, mostly because of the media. There was a lot fewer chases and shakedowns and a lot more staring at shipping ledgers. After a solid two hours of this on his day off, he needed to shut his brain off for awhile.

“I’ve got it!” said the Dragonborn. “This time… I’ll KICK it!”

Just as Ian was finally feeling his higher functions begin to shut down, his Seri began to buzz.

Rokasha was on the other line. The familiar, muffled background noise of talking, filing, and nice shoes against hard floors suggested that she was still in HQ. She sounded more exasperated than usual.

“Hey, I know it’s your day off and all, but I’ve gotten a tip that could lead us somewhere in the artifacts case; the Ald Redaynia excavation? We got a name for a guy who involved in the dig. I looked into that and apparently the guy runs a… Neo-Daedric worship website. Take that as you will,”

There was a pause, followed the familiar sound of papers being sifted through with one hand.

“Neo-Daedric Worship?” said Ian, rolling his eyes. “Do their parents know what they’re doing out so late on a school night?”

Rokasha either didn’t notice or chose not to acknowledge the remark. Both cases seemed equally likely. “An investigator out of New Cheydinhal confirms they’ve been watching this guy for a while; he was suspected in the burglary of their local cultural center not too long ago. The forums on his… _really_ poorly made site talk about the dig site out on Ald Redaynia, too. Did you get the files I sent you? You _have_ been checking your mail, right?”

Ian very quickly tapped his Seri’s screen a few times. “Of course I have,” he said, scrabbling to open up his inbox. There were, indeed, a number of new messages, all of them from the office. “You know me, ‘Kash. I’ve been hard at work on the case, nonstop. Ever-vigilant for the security of the Provinces and all that.”

There was dead silence on the other end.

“You’ve been watching _Adventures of the Dovahkiin_ in your underwear all day, haven’t you,” said Rokasha, in that familiar exasperated tone that Ian knew so well.

He looked down at himself. “Not in my _underwear_ ,” he said, which was true. He was also wearing a T-shirt. He very quickly skimmed a number of the emails.

“Those digs don’t look like they’re huge operations,” he said. “I can’t imagine it would be too hard for an artifact or two to go ‘missing’. But by that same token, it doesn’t seem to me that they’ve unearthed anything of real value, just trinkets and curiosities. Artifact smugglers usually have better taste. Who would _want_ what they’re stealing?”

The sound on the other line blew out loudly; Rokasha was either dropping her phone, putting it against her other ear, or getting hit by a sudden obliterating typhoon. “What look like trinkets to us may be a goldmine for these guys; old daedra worship paraphernalia, religious iconography… this guy runs an online cult, basically. Some people will pay a lot for an authentic artifact out of an old daedra shrine, even if it’s the cup a Boethian priest drank out of. _Everything_ is ‘mystical’ or ‘powerful’ to them.”

“The Chamberpot of the Ancients,” said Ian, smirking to himself. And he knew he heard Rokasha snicker, even though she would deny it if he asked.

“Did you have the techies get to work on the site?” he asked, as he continued to read emails. One of them contained a link to the forum, and he opened it up, wincing at the blood red text on black backgrounds. _That_ should have been a crime. 

“Funny you should mention,” said Rokasha. “They’ve been running traces on the most prominent posters all day. Most of them are just dumb kids, as you said, but a couple of them…”

“I think I see what you mean,” said Ian, as he pulled up one post in particular. “‘ _Brethren, our hour is at hand. We finally have the tools we need and the sacrifice has been procured. It shall begin at midnight (CST), and the world shall finally know our power._ ’” He read on a little. “The dramatic tone is ruined a little bit by the fact that this person’s username is ‘SuckMyMolagBalls’, but all the same, I’m a bit worried by this mention of a ‘sacrifice’. Granted, it might just be a chicken, but....”

“Well, it’s still illegal. Daedra worship has been banned in Cyrodiil for centuries. Eras, even. Not that it’s stopped them. Still odd though, you hear about Neo-Daedricism and cult activity but we don’t really get many cases about them. They pop up every time a Daedric horror flick gets popular but nothing really comes of them.”

“That reminds me,” said Ian. “I’ve been meaning to go see _Mysterium Xarxes: Unbound._ Should I bother asking if you want to come with?”

“No.”

“Thought not. So have we got anything on Mr. Balls?”

“ _Miss_ Balls, actually,” said Rokasha. “She covered her tracks very well, and it might have worked if it was just the police looking into her instead of TALEO. Check your inbox again.”

A new message popped up. It was a rap sheet for a Miss Eliana Vulpin, Imperial, aged twenty-eight, mostly minor offenses. Worked in a Mzanchtech shipping warehouse. Nothing about her said ‘Daedra Worshipper’ to Ian. But he knew Rokasha better than that.

“She has a younger brother who’s an archeology student,” said Rokasha, answering Ian’s unasked questions. “And he was on three of the dig sites that reported missing items.”

“Please tell me we have an address,” said Ian, grinning.

“Way ahead of you. Right now she’s in a town called Faregyl, 231 Omen Road. The warehouse she works at is on the waterfront, I tried to call them and only got an answering machine.” She paused; there was a jostling sound and an audible sip. A straw squeaked against a plastic lid. “What do you think, search warrant? Or do you want the Bravil branch to handle it? What time are they doing that ‘sacrifice’, anyways?” They way she said ‘sacrifice’ sounded like she found it more amusing than half of Ian’s jokes.

Ian skimmed the post again. “Oh, Talos’s Taint,” he swore. “They’re doing it tonight.” He inhaled deeply. “You know as well as I do that this is probably just some kids fucking around, ‘Kash. But can we really take the chance? This is a joke to us, but have you looked at this forum? These clowns believe this crap. Do we want to gamble on the fact that they don’t believe it hard enough to sacrifice a _person_ to their fake masters?”

“Well if anything, I’m sure the chicken or the goat in mortal danger will thank us for the rescue.” Rokasha sighed, her attention elsewhere for a moment. The faint clicks of a mouse were audible amongst the gently white noise that filled the silence.

“These forum posts do get… really morbid, though. When was the last case of human sacrifice, anyway? All that comes to mind were those extremists in Leyawiin who were murdering Argonian immigrants a few years back, but that ‘cult’ front was just journalistic sensationalism covering up racist agendas. These people sound more like they’re trying to replicate ‘ _Border Watch_ ’. Let’s put it this way; if we leave this to the Bravil task force, we aren’t going to see results for a few days. If we do a search warrant now, we’ll get answers tonight.”

“Get the warrant,” said Ian, righting himself. “Get Tandram to issue it, he owes me a favor and he can fast-track it. I have a weird feeling about this one, ‘Kash. Let’s clean it up as quickly as we can and get on with our lives.”

Despite what the cliche would demand, Ian was the type to do things by the book as much as possible. But he also trusted his gut, and after years of partnership, Rokasha knew to trust it too.

Rokasha furiously tapped one-handed on a keyboard in the background of the call. “We can take a ferry and get there by… let’s say five; if there’s anything going on there we’ll catch them right in the act. I’ve got one of the Waterfront patrols looking into the Mzanchtech building, the owner of the building called Jenoit back and said there’s no reason for it to be closed today. Think you can get your pants on within the hour?”

“I’ve been practicing,” said Ian. “See you then, ‘Kash.”

He hung up and turned his attention back to the screen for a moment.

“Right, so, punching and kicking, _both_ out,” said the badly-bruised Dovahkiin. “But… you’re always telling me to use my head, so-”

“Not like _that,_ you-”

The screen winked out as Ian popped into a standing position and stretched. Most people would resent being called in on their day off, but this was the most exciting thing that had happened all day. It was time to suit up.

Clothes were easy enough. He only really wore one thing for work. It made things simpler. He quickly retrieved his sidearm, as well as his stun-gun, checking to make sure that the V-gems powering it were still bright and fresh, and finally, threw his tactical vest on.

He briefly considered saying something like ‘Showtime’, but if Rokasha were here, she would have just rolled her eyes at it. Oh well.

 

The residence of Elenia Vulpin, AKA SuckMyMolagBalls, looked unassuming enough. They always did.

“Then again,” said Ian, “I suppose a lawn sign that said ‘Daedra Worshippers Welcome, Please Wipe Your Feet’ would lower the property values somewhat.”

“That would make things easier, I’m sure,” Rokasha stepped ahead, motioning Ian to follow close behind as she gave the front of the house a cursory glance. There was no car in the parking lot, but lights were on inside, just barely visible through the blinds. The tiny mer didn’t make the most visually intimidating officer with her size alone, but she made up for it with confident body language; briskly walking up to the door, her hand close to the stun gun at her hip. She stepped aside at the door, offering her place cordially.

“After you, you’ve got the outside voice.”

Ian knocked on the door. “TALEO!” he called out. “Open up, we have a warrant!”

No reply. Ian closed his eyes and counted to ten under his breath.

“Can’t say we didn’t give ‘em a chance,” he said, and with that, he reared back and kicked the door in.

“I think you might enjoy that a little too much,” said Rokasha.

“Entirely possible,” said Ian, bringing his sidearm and flashlight to bear. “I’ll take point, cover me.”

Nothing about the interior of the house screamed “daedra worshipper” any more than the outside did. It was well-kept. The fridge was better-stocked than Ian’s. A few amateur magecraft publications were strewn about.

Ian made his way down the short hallway past the kitchen, opening every door and giving the space a once over, Rokasha following close behind, giving a more thorough scan of her flashlight. The pantry seemed benign, as did the bathroom, and the bare spare bedroom. The master bedroom was the point of interest at the very end, pitch black from the heavy curtains blocking out the setting sun outside. The two flashlight beams moved over the still contents of the room curiously. Ian was the first to come to a conclusion about it.

“Looks more like a brooding teenager’s bedroom than a twenty-eight year-old’s.”

He wasn’t wrong. The room was plastered with posters of occult-themed movies, prominent merchandise from metal bands like 4Corners gave the abode a distinctly adolescent theme. There were some trinkets here and there that could have given the impression of an interest in Daedra worship, mostly the embellished, pop culture variety. Rokasha’s flashlight beam flicked over a series of papers on the wall before snapping back to bring attention to them. There were crude scrawling of Daedric symbols and rudimentary attempts at summoning circle patterns, all written with a jagged hand that could have very well been for dramatic effect.

Ian picked up one piece of paper and turned it over in his heads.

“This is all complete and utter nonsense,” said Ian. “But anything is dangerous if people believe in it strongly enough.”

Just then, his radio crackled. Ian holstered his sidearm and picked it up.

“Special Agent Eriksen reporting in,” he said. “What’s happening?”

“We’ve got shots fired at the Mzanchtech warehouse!” came the voice on the other end. “Requesting immediate backup! They’ve got some serious firepower over here!”

Ian cursed under his breath. “How long do you think it’ll take tactical to get there?”

“From HQ?” said Rokasha. “Thirty minutes if we’re lucky.”

“And how long will it take _us_ to get to the warehouse?”

“Fifteen minutes,” said Rokasha. “Ten if you let me drive.”

Ian sighed and dug into his pocket, tossing her the keys. “Just don’t ruin the paintjob again.”

Rokasha smiled just slightly as she caught the keychain. “No promises.”

 

The ETA turned out to be more like nine minutes, as Rokasha let the sirens blare to signal their arrival down one of the otherwise gridlocked Waterfront bridges. Ian could only hang on and hope for the best, maybe pray to some gods to ensure their survival. The daedra seemed to be pretty popular apparently, but he wasn’t about to go that far just yet. Rokasha on the other hand seemed perfectly content at the wheel, sitting forward and alert, the driver’s seat adjusted to its tallest setting. By the time they screeched to a stop in front of the warehouse loading dock, the sun had made its descent into the colovians to the west, the sky turning a foreboding reddish tint.

Several TALEO agents were crouched behind a makeshift barricade, seemingly made from a number of picnic tables. The gunfire seemed to have stopped for the moment. Ian and Rokasha both sidled up to it and got the attention of the most senior agent on the field, an aging Altmer by the name of Caemus. He nodded at them when as they took their place.

“Report,” said Rokasha.

“The warehouse was closed for fumigation,” said Caemus, gesturing at the big orange signs. “But after everything Special Agent Rokasha told us, we were skeptical. We knocked on the door and someone dressed like an exterminator answered it and told us everything was okay. That’s when we heard someone scream for help. The shooting started right about then.”

One of the rolling steel doors that were otherwise reserved for unloading trucks was rolled down halfway, dotted with bullet holes and a scant few burn marks. A couple of figures were taking cover just inside of the doorway, barely taking a peek towards the barricade before an errant shot was fired at them, bouncing harmlessly off the doorway. A small, reddish orange fireball was lobbed blindly at the barricade.

“Magefire! We’ve got magefire confirmed!” Caemus barked into his radio as the TALEO agents scattered in an attempt to dodge it. The fireball was weak enough that it only left a scorched spot by the time it hit the upturned table. A faint scream could be heard from within. The hair on the back of Rokasha’s neck stood on end as she turned to her partner.

“There’s got to be another entrance. Maybe in the back?”

“Worth a look,” said Ian, nodding. “Caemus, keep them occupied. Make a lot of noise.”

“Will do,” said Caemus. “There’s some smoke bombs in my car, might come in handy.”

“You were always my favorite,” said Ian, grinning as he darted over to the vehicle and helped himself. “Give me some covering fire.”

Caemus nodded, holding up a hand and snapping his fingers. A ball of light materialized in his palm. He peeked over the barricade and tossed it overhand just as Ian and Rokasha covered their eyes. The mystic energy exploded in a cloud of light and noise, and the two agents darted off.

It wasn’t a particularly large warehouse; Mzanchtech had dozens of properties similar to it, mostly used for storing product being imported and exported. As long as you didn’t break anything or try to walk out with an armful of merch, corporate didn’t care what went on.

As far as places to try and summon daedra went, Ian could think of worse ones.

There was, indeed, a back door. It was padlocked shut. And it was a steel door; no chance of kicking it in.

“I don’t suppose you have a pair of bolt cutters about your person,” said Ian, considering the offending device.

Rokasha paused, looking down at her person as though she’d find her answer there. A quick pat at her pocket produced a chip, barely the size of her thumbnail. “I’ve got a Locksplitter stub,” she reached into her other pocket, fishing out a smooth, phone-like device with the TALEO seal on the cover. She stepped up to the door, aiming it towards the padlock. “I hope I’ve got the gem power for this one.” She pushed the chip into a slot at the bottom with a satisfying click. The device lit up in response.

Ian barely flinched as purple light flashed in the direction of the lock. Direnni Scrollstub Processors were pricey toys for those who couldn’t muster natural magicka for everyday things, highly regulated and pre-programmed for harmless, useful spells. The processors agents were issued were no different, including unlocking and paralyzing spells in their repertoire. The padlock nearly melted, the inner parts of its lock disassembled entirely as the chain swung uselessly on the door.

“Always resourceful, aren’t you,” said Ian, inching the door open. He sniffed the air and made a disgusted noise. “Smells like rotten eggs in here,” he said, as he made his way in, Rokasha right behind him. In the distance, he could hear the report of automatic gunfire… and chanting.

“If daedric horror stories are to be believed,” said Ian, “chanting is never a good sign.” The agents maneuvers through a veritable maze of shipping crates, until a crimson light revealed itself in the distance. Ian pressed forward, turning the corner to see a scene straight out of _Mysterium Xarxes._

A space had been cleared out for a large circle to be drawn onto the concrete ground, lined with jagged letters around its perimeter and with a number of candles set at various points. Figures in hooded robes knelt around in, with one in the middle, standing tall with her hood down.

“Miss Balls, I presume,” said Ian out of the corner of his mouth, inching closer to get a better look.

Elenia Vulpin raised her hands up high, and the chanting began to increase in intensity.

“Let the skies darken with the blood of the subjugated!” she spoke, the words echoing through the chamber.. “Lord of Brutality, Harvester of Souls, walk the realm of Mundus once more and tear down the world of man and mer!”

She slipped something from out of the fold of her sleeve; a jagged, curved piece of red and black metal, a knife that was ugly and corrupted even in design. The other cultists stepped aside, and the agents got a good look at what was at her feet; a young Dunmer boy, barely more than an adolescent, bound and gagged, squirming in vain to get free from his bonds.

“That’s enough of that,” snarled Rokasha. Ian nodded, pulling out the smoke grenade and tossing it into the circle. The cultists all looked to it when it hit the ground, and they scattered. It went off, filling the air with clouds of smoke. The chanting was replaced with a chorus of coughs.

“Imperial Agents!” shouted Rokasha as she and Ian stepped out.

“Everyone lay down your weapons and put your hands on your head!” said Ian.

A familiar hiss-and-crackle was their reply, and both Rokasha and Ian hit the deck as a sphere of magefire flew past them.

“Stop her!” yelled Ian. “I’ll get the boy!”

Elenia tried to duck behind a nearby crate but her robes slowed her down exponentially; billowing everywhere, knocking candles over. Most of the cultists were on the ground, hands on their head in surrender but a few tried to fight back, the ricochet of bullets and blast of amateur magic creating a raucous atmosphere that Rokasha found hard to concentrate in. She focused on Vulpin, who rose up from her cover to prepare a shock spell that arced between her hands. It was the only window of opportunity Rokasha needed, aiming her sidearm. For all the dramatic flair the spell had, it fizzled out quickly as soon as the bullet hit just off from the cultist’s solar plexus.

Elenia Vulpin shrieked as well as her lungs could allow, as they were filling up with blood. She slumped behind the crate, the dagger falling out of her sleeve and onto the concrete floor.

While all this was going on, Ian had pulled the boy out of the way, just in time for Vulpin to fall in the spot where he had been, her blood spreading across the floor.

“Don’t worry, you’re okay now,” said Ian to the boy, as he started to untie him. The grateful kid clung to him as soon as his arms were free.  
  
Moments later, the TALEO tac team made their way in, with Agent Caemus at the fore.

“Impeccable timing, as always,” said Ian, pawning the kid off on another agent as the rest of them made a quick work of cuffing the surrendering cultists. Ian stood up and brushed himself off before walking over to Rokasha, who was checking her sidearm.

“Nice shooting,” he said, looking down at Vulpin’s prone form. “Looks like a clean kill.”

“Better than someone like her deserved,” said Rokasha, looking over to the boy being led off.

Ian nodded, kneeling next to the body and checking her pulse. “Definitely dead,” he said. “Watch where you step, this one’s an enthusiastic bleeder.”

And indeed, the pool of blood continued to seep out,flowing across the circle, staining the strange letters, and flowing around the knife.

“How long do you think it’s going to take them to clean-”  
  
Ian’s quip was interrupted by a sound like a thunderclap filling the air, and Ian felt himself pushed back, as if by an unseen force. The tac team all turned to look at the source of the sound, and they all saw the same thing.

In the air above Vulpin’s corpse was a distortion, like a heat shimmer. And it was growing.

The air felt hot and heavy, thick with a pungent odor that caught in the throats of the officers. The distorted illusion above the fallen cultist grew six, seven, _eight_ feet as the formless blob began to take on some recognizable features. A pair of horns, a tail, and a snout that gaped open in a roar that shook the foundations of the building. Like a picture slowly being brought into focus, a tall and exaggerated form of jagged scales and sinewy muscle began to materialize in front of the agents. It opened its burning red eyes, and took in its surroundings like a Lord surveying its conquered kingdom.

 _“After seven hundred years,”_ it rasped, _“I finally return to this mortal realm.”_

The room was as silent as a grave as the TALEO agents all beheld the horrific form before them.

 _“You are awed by my presence,”_ it continued. _“Good. Just as it should be. You shall be the first of my new subjects. Now, bow in fealty, and I may yet choose to be merciful.”_

Everyone in the room was absolutely agape.

Ian was the first one to break the silence. The words he broke it with were “Open fire!”

As one, the agents and the tac team raised their weapons and unloaded them into the hideous being.

The monster could only shriek, mostly in surprise, as it was beset by a rain of gunfire. Imperial-issued rounds chipped away at its scales and made black blood spray and sizzle against nearby crates. Sparks flew with each hit, and were ceaseless as the officers emptied their clips into it, never giving it time to react. The monster was brought down after a good thirty seconds of gunfire before it could even conquer a single thing, slumping to the floor in a dazed, black-stained, smoking heap.

The room was silent once again, except for a strange sizzling sound. Ian took a few steps forward, cautiously prodding the… whatever it was with a toe. With a fresh puff of smoke, the body caught fire, rapidly disintegrating into ash before their eyes, until all that was left was a sulfurous odor.

Everyone looked at everyone else, waiting for somebody to have an explanation for what had just happened. None seemed to be forthcoming.

Once again, Ian was the first to speak.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” he said, “But I do _not_ want to be the one to have to write _that_ up in the incident reports.”

 

The debriefing back at HQ went about as well as could be expected. Disbelief was, of course, the first response, but it was hard to disbelieve a dozen eyewitnesses, some of which were wearing helmet cams.

Nobody was sure exactly _what_ had transpired at that warehouse, but one thing was for sure; nobody wanted word of it to get out. The crime scene cleanup detail had found nothing out of the ordinary, other than some sulfurous residue.

And so it was settled. Until TALEO had a compelling reason to do otherwise, it would simply sweep the whole incident under the rug. There was no need for the public to panic.

This did not sit well with either Rokasha or Ian, but it was well above both of their pay grades. The only reasonable thing that both of them could do was, of course, get completely plastered after work.

The next morning, after the hangovers had passed, something resembling normalcy was achieved once again. But none of the agents could scrub their minds of the events of that night. All they could do is hope to never see anything like that again.

 

 The world of Nirn was a highly unique one. It was common knowledge that there were things that existed beyond mortal understanding were no more than a whisper away.

Or rather, it used to be common knowledge. As the world changed, so changed the ideas that permeated it. Slowly but surely, the borders between the worlds grew dense and denser, until finally they were locked tight, kept firmly away from a people that no longer believed.

So it had been for hundreds of years.

But history is made by little things that make a big difference. The presence of one arrow in the right place can turn the tide of a war. A single loose fitting can grind an entire factory to a halt.

And the actions of one foolish person can change a world.

The misguided actions of one Miss Elenia Vulpin had forced a door open. And though it was rapidly shut once again, it remained open, just a crack.

That crack was enough draw the attention of beings who had not been disturbed for a considerable amount of time.

Time does not flow in Oblivion the way it does in the mundane realm. Trying to apply a mortal concept like ‘time’ to such a place was a futile exercise. But inasmuch as it applied, it had been a very, very long time since they had been shut out of the world.

 

And now…

 

Now they had a way back in.


End file.
